The Trouble With Blue Dresses
by theshipsfirstmate
Summary: A series of smutty, episode-based one shots. Essentially, every time Felicity wears a blue dress, Olicity gets it on. Chapter 1: 3x07. Chapter 2: 2x01. Chapter 3: 3x08.
1. 3x07: Just Like Monica

**The Trouble With Blue Dresses - Just Like Monica**

_Post 3x07 Olicity smangst. "He goes back with every intention of straightening up the mess he made in the Foundry. Really, he does." (in which I couldn't stop thinking about Oliver mussing up Felicity's pretty blue dress)_

He leaves Diggle's feeling heavier, and it's not just because Lyla's dinner was the first home-cooked meal he's had in a good long time. There had been a clenching in his chest at the sight of Felicity kissing Ray Palmer in his old office, in his family's building, _in a company that had been stripped of his legacy_, but that feeling had sunken lower in the hours since, settling into a heavy weight in the pit of his stomach. Oliver was used to carrying the weight of responsibility on his shoulders, but this was something different.

He shrugs Roy off at the curb, selfishly ignoring the pained look that comes across the younger man's face when Oliver suggests that he "hit the club, see what Thea's up to."

He goes back to the Foundry himself, with every intention of cleaning up the mess he knows is left there, wanting to put everything back in its place before she could see what he had done. But as he descends the stairs and sees the bottles strewn across the ground, every moment from that night comes flashing back. He sees the blue of her dress and the green of his hood and the red that flares up behind his pupils when he allows himself to consider the true implications of the last twelve hours.

Diggle's warning voice when he told him about Felicity's reaction to his speech to Cupid. The hurt that had flashed across her face, for just a second, when he had told her "Do what you want." The way her hand clasped Ray Palmer's arm as her head angled toward his. _That kiss_.

Before he knows what's happening, he's destroying everything. The table he had swiped the bottles off of earlier is overturned, the contents of every surface (except for Felicity's desk) scattered to the ground. He puts his fists through the glass case that holds his Arrow suit and gear and uses the pull-up pole to beat the shit out of the salmon ladder until the bars are warped and cracking. He bloodies himself destroying every part of the fortress he (they) holds so dear, and when the only thing left standing is her desk, her computers, he stands in front of them, panting.

That was how she found him.

* * *

Felicity wouldn't have thought it possible, but she leaves QC, _Palmer Technologies_, feeling even more conflicted and heartbroken than when she came in. She knows, deep down, that Palmer's outright rejection should burn her deeper than Oliver's, _The Arrow's_, self-sacrificing confession to Crazy Carrie Cutter, but she can't stop thinking about his voice and "I know what it's like" and how Ray Palmer's lips felt nothing like Oliver Queen's.

She drives to the Foundry nearly on muscle memory, blinking as she pulls into the parking lot, unable to remember how or why she's there. _Might as well check on everything_, the logical part of her brain resolves, while a smaller, clearly insane, part screams _tell him, Tell Him,_ _TELL HIM_.

Tell him? Tell him what? Tell him again what an idiot he's being? Tell him that the way he said "Do what you want" is one of the worst things she's ever heard in her life? Tell him that another man kissed her? Tell him that _another_ man rejected her?

She's readied herself to face Oliver, but nothing could have prepared her for the sight of him shirtless and and broken and bleeding, standing in the destruction of the Foundry like the world had simply collapsed around him. It looks almost as bad as it had after the Undertaking, like a cyclone had blow through, uprooting everything in its path.

She makes it halfway down the stairs before she gasps audibly.

That was when he saw her.

* * *

"Oh my god," they say in unison, but she's quicker to follow up because _of course _she is.

"Oliver! What happened?" Instinct takes over and she rushes down the rest of the stairs to him, bracing herself for a threat that might still remain, but unable to not try and help him, at least help tend to his many visible wounds.

But she's not prepared, _again_, to see him step back from her as she approaches, his arms shooting up defensively.

"Stay away from me, Felicity" he warns, but it does nothing to slow her.

"What are you talking about, what's going on?" she's frantic now, reaching him and grabbing at his arm. "What happened to...everything, who was here?"

The force at which he pulls his bicep away from her grasp actually causes her to take several steps backward.

"Felicity!" he nearly yells and this time the sound of his voice stops her cold. "No one was here. It's fine. Stay right there and just...don't touch me."

"Oliver, what's going on?" she asks again, but this time the resolution in her voice is overpowered by something else he know is fear.

"I...I destroyed it," he says, and his resigned tone is echoed in the slumping of his shoulders as he shrinks down right in front of her. "I destroyed everything."

"Why?"

_What else is there for her to say?_

"Felicity," he says, like she's supposed to know.

"You have to at least let me stitch you up," she replies, stubbornly stepping forward again and tracing her fingers along a particularly large gash on his forearm. She's wondering if he's in shock, but then he hisses and when she looks up, his eyes are anything but unfocused.

"Felicity," he says her name again, and then he's wrapping his arms around her and kissing her desperately and it's hot and heavy and she lets it be perfect for maybe ten seconds, before she pushes his chest back. She doesn't move completely from his grasp, but she pulls back far enough to draw his whole face into focus, to see the desperation burnt on his blown pupils.

"Oliver, what happened?" This time her voice is pained in a different way, but nowhere close to his when he answers.

"I saw you."

* * *

She knows what he's talking about, of _course_ she does, but she lets herself pretend she's wrong for just one second.

Because of course that's what happened. Of course a misguided kiss with the man she should want would lead to a misguided kiss with the one she actually did.

And it doesn't matter that the way he's looking at her is more meaningful than any million dollar necklace or billion dollar business deal, it doesn't matter that she can't imagine ever feeling the way she does right now with Ray Palmer, or anyone else for that matter. It's meaningless because _he_ doesn't mean it. Because he doesn't really want her.

"That's what this is about," she spits at him, finally pulling away fully, shoving at his biceps and his stupid, perfect chest. "You saw me with him and just wanted to claim me back."

"No," he protests, but his broken voice betrays him and he can't seem to form any more words.

"Yes," she hisses back. "That's all this is. If you don't want me, you can't be upset when someone else gets to have me!"

"_Felicity_," he nearly whispers and he sounds so hurt and he looks devastated, and _fuck him_ because he doesn't get to be upset right now. So she jabs at him again, determined to find their breaking point, anything to end this brutal standstill between them.

"And for fuck's sake, Oliver, you can't throw a temper tantrum and destroy the Foundry just because somebody else _finally_ decides to kiss me!"

It's somewhere between her saying the words "fuck" and "kiss" that he lunges again, arms banding about her waist, pressing her flush against him as he captures her mouth against his, her only protest a surprised squeak that gets muffled as she wraps her arms behind his neck and kisses him back.

He hitches her up against him, rucking up the skirt of her pretty blue dress and stumbling over some of his wreckage as he moves to press her up against the concrete pillar, one of the few things he hadn't actually been able to tear down with his bare hands. He shifts up against her just slightly and they both groan when her long legs lock around his waist.

Her hands seem to be anchored to the hair on the back of his head, gripping the short strands tightly between her fingers, while his hands are roaming, scrambling to touch every part of her before his time runs out. He skims them down her sides to squeeze her hips and then trails them back up over her breasts. He brings them to the nape of her neck and pulls out the elastic in her hair, scraping his fingers up her scalp and ruining the up-do she had done up for someone else.

He knows it's not right, and he knows this is going to be another thing that will haunt him, but when he grips her ass with his left hand and presses that dress up just a little further to touch, _just to touch_, the inside of her thigh with his right, she makes a sound into his mouth that makes him willing to question any logic that says he's not supposed to be here with her right now.

She pulls away from his lips with a pop, just long enough to softly moan, "Oliver, please," and his right hand abandons all pretense, dragging her panties to the side and pressing one finger inside her.

"Oh, fuck!" she cries and he'd answer if he hadn't momentarily been struck dumb by how wet she is. And he nearly grins for one stupid second because unlike her dress or her makeup, or her hair, this is _for him_.

When she moves her mouth down to his throat, she can feel his hot breath against her ear, can feel him vibrate as he moans her name, the best way he's said it all night. She slips her hands down from his neck to scratch at his chest and he adds another finger inside her, groaning as she rolls her hips against him.

She's so close already, and so she moves her hands down further grab at the front of his pants, sliding the zipper down with one hand and wrapping the other around his length at the same time he crooks his fingers inside her and brings his thumb down to press down on her clit.

And then she's coming.

And it's everything, _it's everything_, it's too much when she clenches around his fingers and cries his name at the same time that she's undoing his pants and licking at his neck. He was worked up before she even got here, and he's on such a live wire that he goes off too, erupting in a mess all over her thighs and her stomach and _oh god no_, on her pretty blue dress.

His guttural groan of her name descends into a pained apology as he realizes what he's done, but she's too blissed out to hear him at first, instead mutely following his gaze downwards.

And _holy shit_, if the sight of him all over her isn't one of the hottest things she's ever seen.

But when she raises her eyes back up to say so, she sees the horror and regret in his and it freezes her yet again. Not just because he takes away his warmth when he steps completely back and away from her, but because she's finally starting to hear the words he's frantically mouthing and all she hears is "I'm sorry" and "oh god" and "mistake."

He's gone before she even has a chance to piece his words into sentences, and she's left alone once again, wondering if she's setting a record for being walked away from while wearing couture.

* * *

They avoid each other studiously for the new few weeks, she spends most of her time at work, finding her way around a somehow more-awkward Ray Palmer and he spends his days reassembling the Foundry and his nights dismantling their relationship, ignoring her except to talk official Arrow business. She still catches him giving her heated stares when he thinks she's not looking, but it's different. It's worse. She could handle heat tinged with longing, because at least that felt like possibility. Now all she sees in his eyes is regret, and something about that feels so final it makes her chest ache.

Diggle raises an eyebrows at them once or twice, but they suddenly have much bigger fish to fry, so that's all the attention anybody pays. When he leaves for Nanda Parbat, he says goodbye to her first, flatly and in front of the rest of the team and her eyes burn with angry tears when she realizes what he's doing. He never even meets her stare, but everyone else is too distracted to worry about it.

And she feels just like a cliche, and a little bit like a crazy person, two weeks later, when she sobs as she pulls blue couture out of a dry cleaning bag and shoves it to the very back of her closet.


	2. 2x01: Action Verbs and Office Windows

**The Trouble With Blue Dresses - Action Verbs and Office Windows**

_Thanks so much to everybody for the awesome response to my first smut! I've decided to expand this into a collection of episode-based oneshots, wherein Olicity bangs every time Felicity's got a blue dress on. Here's 2x01 "City of Heroes." Enjoy!_

The deja vu probably would have hit her sooner, if not for the hooded gunmen and imminent peril and all. Once her mind's caught up with the fact that yes, Oliver did just pick her up and _swing them out the window of a skyscraper and back through the windows on the floor below_, for a few seconds, all she can think is holy shit, they're alive. They're okay.

Except that he's not.

"Oh my god, Oliver, you're bleeding," she says and her voice sounds leveler than she would have imagined possible, given the circumstances.

It's not life-threatening, but there's a pretty nasty gash on the underside of his forearm, because, you know, that's what happens when you go smashing through plate glass windows. He seems unphased, but she knows from experience now that they've at least got to clean it out and hopefully bandage it before someone, _please let it be Diggle_, can stitch him up later.

So it's not until she's hustled him into the floor's handicapped bathroom, found the meager first-aid kit underneath the sink and started cleaning off his forearm with the antiseptic wipes, that she realizes: for the second time in as many weeks, he's literally swung her to safety in totally ridiculous ways. First off of a landmine, which she had thought was pretty crazy, until this morning when they _went through a goddamn window._

And it is ridiculous, this whole day is ridiculous, her whole _life_ is ridiculous now, and there's still adrenaline coursing through her veins, so she can't help herself if she snickers just a little bit.

"What?"

"It's just...it's funny," she says absently, as she cleans the cut under his forearm. "I figured the next time you Tarzan-ed me…"

"Tarzan-ed you?"

"Yeah, you know, Tarzan?" She glances up at him, almost incredulous. "With the ropes and the swinging? Oh, come on, you have to know that reference. The first movie came out in like, the 30s, and the Disney one was out on VHS before you were even gone!"

"I know the reference, Felicity," he says, finally allowed the smallest of smiles to quirk at his lips. "I've just never heard it used as a verb."

"Oh," her mouth stays in that shape for just a second, eyes locked on his, before she snaps out of it. "Well there's a first time for everything, I guess. And a second time if we're talking Tarzan-ing. And saving my life. Although, you've done that more than twice now, at least…"

"_Felicity._"

"I just didn't think it could possibly be scarier the second time around," she says quietly, voice getting smaller as she realizes, "I guess it's not that funny after all."

The arms she's not bandaging reaches out then, tilting her chin up so their eyes meet.

"You keep saving me," she continues, now almost at a whisper. "I don't know how to thank you for that."

"You never have to thank me, Felicity," he tells her, and he means it. She can see that he means it. For a stupid delirious second, it seems like she can see everything in his ridiculously blue eyes.

She forces the moment to end before she has the chance to say something she can't take back, finishes smoothing the butterfly band-aid over the cut on his arm and guides it back down to his side before she lets go with a small smile.

"Well, that's good," she resolves. "Because I would have run out of ways to say it by now."

And because a day that has included copycat vigilantes and heroic leaps out of skyscraper windows just had to get a little more bizarre, when she stretches up on her tiptoes to press a quick kiss to his cheek, he turns his head and meets her lips with his own.

It's soft and chaste, but she gasps just the same, and he takes opportunity to nip at her lower lip before their mouths are pressing back together for just a few more seconds.

She doesn't want to read too much into to this, knows it will be summarily dismissed as a mistake, but she can't help herself. Because it feels like more than a mistake. It feels like _I am happy to see you_ and _you never have to thank me _and _I'll always save you_. But then it's over.

"You should go find Ms. Rochev, make sure everybody's okay upstairs" she stammers, not meeting his eyes and skittering away from him until her back hits the sink. "I'm going to, um, talk to someone about cleaning up down here and I'll be right up."

He nearly protests, his lips on fire from the feel of hers and a thousand things he wants to say, but she's right, damn her, and so he steps around her and out the door.

* * *

He feels like even more of an ass for his earlier dismissal of his team when he walks down into the Foundry and realizes what Diggle and Felicity have done with the place. What she's done for him.

It's perfect, all of it. The new set-up, his new bow, the three of them together again. He tells her so, and he means it, and he'd tell her again every five minutes for the rest of time if it meant he could keep seeing that look of pride that flashes across her face. He was worried things might be awkward between them, but her dedication to their cause, her ability to jump right back into this and fight with him, her willingness to help him save his sister, burns away any remaining concern.

Plus, there's that look in her eyes when she explains why she kept the salmon ladder, glancing up at the metal bars and then back at him. A little flare of heat that he catches in the ocean of blue behind her glasses. She likes watching him do that. He likes watching her do everything.

He also likes that she's been wearing her hair down since the three of them came back from Lian Yu. He wants to run his fingers through it.

He stands there, looking at their reflection in the glass display case that holds his hood and he allows himself, for just one second, to think about the last couple years and the few things he's gained instead of everything he's lost. But then, of course, it's time to go again and he hears her when she talks about "another way," but he's not really listening yet.

* * *

Diggle heads home once Thea is safe and the bad guys have been delivered, _alive_, to Captain Lance. She doesn't know exactly why she's so relieved that she'll be here alone when Oliver returns, doesn't know what she's expecting to happen. All she knows is that the sound of his voice over the comms when he told Lance he was "trying another way" has fanned the flames of something that's been smoldering inside her since the moment they shared earlier.

Her breath catches when she hears him come down the stairs and he's barely lowered his hood before she can tell that he's burning too. It's impossible to miss, the fire in his eyes, and it looks a little insane, _feels_ a little insane, but there's no one else here so it must be for her.

"You're trying another way," she says to him, and it's a statement, not a question.

"Yes," he replies heavily, and she feels like he's answering something she didn't ask out loud.

"I'm glad Thea's okay," she says, because she is, and that makes his eyes soften for a half-second, before he responds with a quiet "Thank you."

They burn together, sharing the heated gaze for a few more seconds, minutes, hours, maybe. Then he blinks, turning away from her to grab his bag and storming back to the bathroom to change.

She's sure that's the end of it, the culmination of this weird tension between them, and she allows herself one quick flash of disappointment before heaving a dramatic sigh and turning back to her computers to shut things down for the night.

Then the bathroom door slams. She whips around at the sound and all she can see is _him_. Stalking towards her, wearing only sweatpants and greasepaint and _holy hell_.

She'd love some more time to admire the view, but then his mouth is slanting over hers and his hands are in her hair and okay, this is good too.

This kiss is the polar opposite of the one they shared earlier, hot and hard and anything but chaste. But before it can burn through her completely, her brain, _her stupid stupid brain_, catches up to her, and she's grabbing his biceps to push him back.

"Wait," she says, and she's said a lot of unintentionally dumb things in her lifetime, but this one word might take the cake.

"_Felicity_," he wrenches out, sounding strangled. And he sort of is. He's strained and tense and taut and other adjectives that basically mean hard, and _he's pressed up against her in sweatpants and_ _oh god_, he's also really hard.

She fights through the haze to realize that while she's been babbling internally, he's babbling out loud, his gaze darting between her eyes and her lips, like his mind can't decide what to focus on.

"When we...before…" he stammers and it would be adorable if that adjective didn't feel so inappropriate with him pressed up against her like this, fingers flexing against her scalp as he sighs in frustration. "Felicity, you can't tell me you don't feel this too."

"No, I did," she swallows and his eyes lock on her throat for a long moment before meeting hers again. "I _do_. It's just…"

"What?"

"It's just that...you just came back to me. To _us_," she clarifies, and she's looking down now, because that was more than she wanted to say out loud, but she can still hear his voice catch. "I just don't want to do anything that might make you want to.."

"Leave."

He ducks his head when he realizes what she's trying to say and tries to meet her eyes, but she won't look at him and it hurts him more than her confession. So he pulls one of his hands from her hair and tips her chin up, desperate to see her again.

"I was going to say 'bolt,'" she says with the tiniest hint of a smile, finally meeting his gaze. "But sure, pick an action verb."

* * *

And he does, when he kisses her again, whispering her name as their lips meet and this time, she doesn't pull away. He slides his fingers back into her hair and his tongue into her mouth and it's soft and sweet, until she moans just a little and then one of his hands moves to her hip, squeezing maybe a little too tight as he guides her back to one of the shiny new tables.

"I'm not going anywhere," he growls when their lips finally part for a moment, and he takes advantage of her sharp intake of breath to slip his tongue into her mouth, tracing the vibrations as she moans against his lips.

"Oliver," she's panting as he presses her up against the cool metal, their bodies completely flush and it's the sexiest sound he's ever heard.

He lifts her up and her legs wrap around him, and he's a little bit blown away, because all the times he's thought about this, and _best believe he has thought about this_, the last thing he ever thought it would be is easy. But it is. It's easy. He's with her and she's with him, and it's just the two of them, wanting each other. Her blue dress slides up and his gray sweats slide down, _easy_, and she thrusts her tongue into his mouth as they grind against each other.

When he feels her fingernails rake across his ass, he nearly drops her from where he's got her half-hoisted against the table.

He recovers quickly, grinding up against her and the feel of her, hot and soaked through her panties, pressed against his bare cock, is nearly enough to set him off immediately. Thankfully, it's also enough to remind him that he shoved a condom in his sweatpants before he stormed back out of the bathroom, thinking _just in case_ and _oh please god _at the same time. So, with one last deep kiss, he scoots her back just a bit on the table and drops to the ground to root through his pockets.

The noise she makes at his sudden absence is almost a scoff, and he starts to chuckle, but the sound chokes in his throat when he glances up at her watching him, eyes hooded, legs spread, panties dark with arousal. When she bites down on her lower lip, he snaps into action, rolling the condom on with one hand and reaching up to yank her panties off with the other, ripping through the flimsy lace and tossing the ruined scrap to the ground.

And because he's already at the perfect level, he might as well scoot her hips forward on the table, and dart his tongue out to taste her, right?

"Oh, shit, _shit_, Oliver!" Her hands rake through his hair as he licks up her slit, but when he presses her tongue through her lips and sucks on her clit for just a second, she fists into the short strands, pulling him up.

"Not now," she's panting as he stands before her, and he can't help himself but nip at her swollen lower lip. "I need you here. Need you inside me."

"I'm not going anywhere," he says again, but this time when she gasps, it's because he's pushing into her and his mind nearly whites out at the feel of her around him as he begins to move slowly, losing control with every thrust.

She's hot and tight and he's struggling to keep it together, but he knows he must be doing something right when she moans his name, hot and wet, into his ear and nips at his earlobe.

"_Fuck_, Felicity," he pants, bending his knees to change the angle just slightly and when he thrusts in again, her fingers flex their nails into his back and rake all the way down to his ass. He picks up his pace and they groan simultaneously at opposite ends of an octave.

"Oh shit, so good," she moans, scratching desperately at his ass and lower back. He's thrusting harder now, all pretense of rhythm and control out the window. "Oliver, _god_, I'm so..."

He _knows_, he's close too, so he captures her mouth again, bringing his hand down so his thumb can brush against her clit and she's screaming against his lips, clenching around his cock, coming hard. He strokes her over the peaks, grunting out his last few thrusts into her as he rides out his own release.

They huff out a breath together as they come down, eyes still closed, lips just millimeters apart. She whimpers, _fucking whimpers_, when he pulls out of her and it makes him want to roll another condom on and go for round two, but he knows that they can't, reality slowly starting to seep back into his consciousness. He's ready to panic when she meets his gaze, but she just smiles sweetly, tracing her fingers across his still bare chest.

"Wow," she says and _fuck_, he'd take on any crusade, save any city a hundred times over, if he could see that smile and hear her voice like that for the rest of his life.

"Yeah," he says, knowing full well that he sounds dumbstruck. Because he is.

She hops down from the table, smoothing her skirt back down, and he snaps out of his reverie long enough to reach down and pull his sweatpants back up. She ties her mussed hair back into a ponytail and it's so _Felicity_ that it makes his heart ache a little bit.

"You should go check on Thea," she says, smile fading just a little, and just once, he wishes she could be wrong about something. He nods and retreats to the bathroom to grab his gym bag and put on his long-forgotten T-shirt and shoes, nearly running because he's so afraid that she'll be gone when he gets back, that this will have been a dream or a hallucination or worse, some kind of mistake she wants to forget.

But she's waiting for him with a look in her eyes that makes his chest clench, and when she holds a hand to him, he takes it, lacing their fingers together as they head for the stairs. They walk out together in their own little bubble, oblivious to the madness of last call at Verdant. It's quiet but not awkward between them, even though he's screaming in his head, burning to ask what comes next.

"I'll see you at work tomorrow," she says softly when they get to the alley, smiling at him like she knows something he doesn't. This time, when she tiptoes up to kiss his cheek, he stays still and lets her.

He watches her walk away, amazed at just how light he feels. It should be weighing on him, should be just another addition to the heavy load of guilt he has to carry. But it feels so much like a beginning that he can't help himself.


	3. 3x08: You Be Bold and I'll Be Brave

_Confession: I think this dress might actually be slightly purple-ish, but it looks blue enough to me, and anyways, she wears a blue top earlier in the episode, so we cool._

_p.s. I has this one all planned out to be so much smuttier and then like, a ton of feelings showed up to the party. And they didn't even bring chips. It turned into kind of a monster, but I promise there is still smut! Hope you enjoy!_

_p.p.s. HAPPY FUCKENING EVERYBODY!_

**You Be Bold and I'll Be Brave (Post 3x08)**

"Do you guys have to leave right this second?" Felicity asks once Barry and Oliver have run off to their vigilante showdown.

She's more comfortable than she expected at the thought of the two of them squaring off, especially given what happened last time, but she knows Barry's not "under the influence" tonight, and this little stunt is really mostly about heroic posturing. She's caught off guard by a vivid memory at the thought, recalling a line she often heard her mother bellow to overly-competitive businessmen bent over the craps tables.

"Oh, just whip 'em out and measure 'em, boys!"

The thought makes her grin, and it also makes her want a Shirley Temple.

"I was thinking, since Cisco did make such a solid point of the fact that we work under a nightclub..." Felicity trails off, interrupted by a loud whoop from the mechanical engineer in question.

Roy cracks his granite jawline into a smirk for the first time in what feels like forever. "I'm in."

"It's after 8 anyway, " Caitlin reasons, ever the pragmatic one. "Dr. Wells won't need us until tomorrow morning. Plus, Barry can just run us back to Central City…"

"...in a flash," Felicity finishes with her. "Let's go."

* * *

It's the most fun she's had in a long time, although to be fair, that's an embarrassingly low bar. It's so nice to hang out with Cisco and Caitlin, who not are not only on her level intellectually, but understand what the day-to-day life of being a vigilante team member is like. Well, some of it anyway.

Even Roy seems like he's having a good time, though he's constantly distracted by Thea's presence behind the bar. It's not long before they're all pleasantly buzzed and everybody's talking a little louder than necessary. Felicity thinks the younger Queen must be either an exceptionally bad bar owner, or she's pouring their drinks strong on purpose. She has the feeling of being close to an explanation for that, but the fuzziness in her head is preventing her from reaching any solid conclusions.

"Caitlin, let's go get another drink," she slurs a little as she gets to her feet, everything wobbling only slightly. "More drinks for everybody,"

Roy tries to volunteer, even starts to stand, but she pushes him back into his seat.

"Whoa there, speedy," she cautions, and he must be a few sheets to the wind too, because it should _not_ be that easy for her to push him around. "Not that you're Speedy, or the speedy one in the group or anything...anyway, you let us get this one. Why don't you stay here and talk to Cisco about how red is so much cooler than green?"

The younger vigilante agrees and she makes her way to the bar, _and Thea,_ she remembers foggily. Game faces on.

"I would like a Shirley Temple Black, please," she says to the younger Queen when she makes her way to their end of the bar, over-enunciating maybe just the slightest bit.

"A Shirley Temple?" Thea asks in disbelief.

"No, no, no, a Shirley Temple Black. It was her married name. Anyway, it means...you just make a Shirley Temple and then," Felicity gestures with an upturned thumb and a tongue click, "grow her up a little."

"Never heard of it, but you got it," Thea says with a grin. "Vodka?"

"Ugh, no," she grimaces. "Make it gin. Leave the vodka for your brother."

It's the alcohol's fault that it takes Thea freezing for Felicity to realize she might have said something out of turn. But by that time, the younger Queen is schooling her expression and narrowing her eyes.

"Right," she says, studying Felicity coolly, like there are answers written on her face. "You're Ollie's assistant, right?"

"Former...executive assistant," Felicity clarifies. She might be a drunken babbling mess, but she's still determined to hold on to a few shreds of her dignity. "Before the Palmer takeover, that is."

"And you and my brother have a lot of drinks together, huh?" Thea's like a dog with a bone and Felicity can't tell if she's being played with or chewed up.

"Well, you know, we still work… a lot...late," she's stammering now, fully aware that this is not helping anything, but the shots in her system are the cement block on the gas pedal of the Babble Mobile. "There's a lot of late nights. Used to be, I mean."

"Ah huh," Thea raises an eyebrow slightly, but lets her off the hook, turning away to make their drinks.

She sees Caitlin gawking out of the corner of her eye and she remembers. _This_ is why they don't have too much fun these days. It's hard enough to keep everything straight when everybody's sober.

"Oliver's sister doesn't know he's the Arrow?" Caitlin nearly squeaks at her once they've gotten their drinks and edged away from the bar awkwardly.

"Not exactly," Felicity signs, pinching her nose in frustration.

"And how does that work?"

"Well it works a lot better when there's not booze involved," she mumbles, mostly to herself.

* * *

The rest of the team is back in the basement by the time Oliver and Barry return to Verdant. The two of them are a little worse for the wear, nothing too bad, just a little beat up, but he realizes quickly that their team doesn't look much better. The four of them are sprawled across the lair, haphazardly, like a tornado dropped them there.

"Who won?" Cisco yells from where he's slumped in Felicity's desk chair once he spots them.

Barry and Oliver grimace at the question, or maybe it's because they're both a little banged up, a few of their wounds visible enough that Caitlin and Felicity both spring into action, standing from where they were leaned shoulder-to-shoulder against each other on the cot. They stumble a little on their way over and Barry laughs incredulously.

"Are you guys drunk?"

"We most certainly are," Caitlin announces, sounding very proud of herself. "Cisco got so drunk he kept forgetting he wasn't supposed to hit on Thea."

"I was being _polite_."

"It's Roy's fault anyway," Felicity hiccups, taking Oliver's bow from him. "He's the one who swiped that bottle at last call."

She gives him a crooked smile and Oliver hears a sound of protest from the spots on the training mats where Roy is sprawled flat on his back, but he can't take his eyes off of her as she hangs his bow in the glass display case, just the way he likes it, like it's second nature to her.

He watches her move, surprised and amazed how happy and loose she seems. She's carefree and she's glowing, and he knows it's because of the alcohol, but who cares, she deserves it. He loves it, loves her, so he watches her until Caitlin breaks his reverie with a gasp.

"What happened to you?" She's noticed the holes in Barry's suit.

"He keeps _shooting_ me with arrows," Barry whines, shrugging his way out of his suit's shoulders, but the puncture wounds on his upper back have already mostly healed, light puckered scar tissue the only sign of any damage done.

Felicity makes her way back to him then, mocking offense on Barry's behalf, overselling just a touch. She slaps him on the arm and he flinches, even though it barely hurts. Thankfully, she picked his good side.

"Stop shooting him with arrows already," she says to him, warning, but there's a smile behind it that creeps onto her face as she keeps a hold of the arm she slapped to steady her balance, meeting his eyes

"He shouldn't be getting hit, he's supposed to be the fast one" Oliver's attempt at an innocent smirk turns into a grin as he takes in her glassy gaze and flushed cheeks and goddamn, she's beautiful, but she's... "You _are_ drunk."

"Hey you missed more shots than you made, big guy," he hears Barry say something, but he sounds farther and farther away the longer Felicity smiles at him, which she does for a solid ten seconds before leaning in conspiratorially.

"I ordered a Shirley Temple...Black," she tells him matter-of-factly, pausing to hiccup again. "Thea didn't know what it was, so I told her it's just a Shirley Temple, only growed up a little."

"Growed up?"

"That's what my mom used to say," she tells him, shrugging. "I didn't think it was weird until just after I finished saying it to Thea earlier. And then again to you just now. Anyways, go."

This genuinely puzzles him.

"Go where?"

She shakes her head a little, pushes him and points.

"Go sit on the table," she says like he's the one stupid drunk. To be fair, for Felicity, her stupid drunk was probably everybody else's regular drunk. Still…

"Huh?"

"Oliver, you need a butterfly bandage or at least some tape on that thing over your eye," she says as she pulls out the supplies in question. "And I know you're going to say no, but…"

"No, Felicity," he catches on, snapping just like she said he would. "I'm not wearing that thing."

"Oliver, you have to sling that arm when you can," she tells him like she's told him a hundred times. Which she probably has by now. "Your shoulder's never going to get any better if you don't immobilize it."

"I'm not doing it, Felicity," he's fully aware that he sounds like a child. "It's fine. I know I'm working on limited medical expertise, but I know my body."

"Oh well lucky for us, we've got a real live doctor in the house!" Felicity voice raises a little more and Oliver follows her gaze over to Caitlin, who's standing frozen next to Barry. It's clear they've been watching them and they're both gawking, looking equal parts shell-shocked and amused. He thinks it probably says something that an intoxicated Caitlin is just barely being more obvious than a stone-cold sober Barry.

"Aw, it's adorable," the young doctor breathes, as a half-dressed Flash strains to keep from laughing out loud beside her. Oliver shoots him a glare.

"It's like the Discovery Channel," Cisco mumbles.

"All day adorable," Roy chimes in from over on the mats. "Every day, adorable, adorable, adorable…"

"I just want to state for the record that I am saying nothing," Barry says, finally forcing the laughs down. "So no more arrows in me, please."

"Let's get you home, Felicity," Oliver turns, ignoring the chorus, back to her smiling eyes, but they're sharper this time, and he knows he's going to at least play along as she patches him up. It never fails to make his heart beat just a little faster, the way she cares for him.

He allows her to clean and bandage the cut above his eye as Barry races back and forth with Cisco and Caitlin and even drops Roy at his apartment before he's gone again and it's just the two of them.

"By the way," Felicity stumbles for a second as they exit the club into the neon-lit alleyway. "Thea might think we're hooking up. Or something."

"Huh?" he's confused but more concerned about keeping her upright, threading his arm under hers for support as they make their way towards her car.

"I forgot she didn't know about you and me...I mean about, that you're the Arrow and I'm there... too," she mumbles, heaving a sigh. "I'm sorry. I tried to cover, but I was a little bit tipsy and she... I think she saw right through me."

It says something about the power she has over him, that he can't really find the strength to care about what Thea might know about his secret identity right now. He's not even worried about exactly how much Felicity managed to spill, because suddenly he's too focused on all the places that he's touching her as he helps her into the passenger seat and reaches across her to buckle the seatbelt. She sighs so softly, and then, as he pulls back to stand, she speaks again.

"Seems like the Queen women have a knack for that."

"What?" Oliver finds himself answering almost unconsciously, his face just a few inches from hers, suddenly breathless.

"Mmm," she drops her head, rolling it away from him petulantly, and he would find it adorable, if he wasn't so desperate to find out what she was talking about, what his mother had said to her. He closes her door carefully before stalking over to the driver's side and getting in, hesitating long enough to wrench her seat back a few feet and start the engine, but then he can't let it go anymore.

"Felicity?" he tries to keep his voice as controlled as possible, reaching over to brush some strands of hair away from her face. "What did you mean?"

"Your mother," she mumbles, pulling away from his hand and pressing her forehead against the window. "When I confronted her about Malcolm."

He's pretty sure that his heart stops beating then, just for a second. He doesn't know what she's referring to, but he knows how desperate Moira must have been during that encounter, how badly she wanted the secret of Thea's parentage to remained buried. Hell, he wished it had too, still can't fathom the lengths he would have gone to preserve his sister's innocence. His mother's desire for self-preservation would have been no less intense.

"She tried to stop me, knew how I felt about you," Felicity murmurs into the glass, almost too softly for him to hear. "Said she could see the way I looked at you. Told me you'd hate me if I told you the truth."

She drifts off, head lolling against the window and he drives her home, knuckles white against her steering wheel.

* * *

She wakes up when he lifts her from the car, but it's not until he's fumbling with her keys that she realizes he's actually carried her all the way to her apartment. He's carrying her, and her limbs are lazy with alcohol, but she's not hurt or anything, he's just carrying her. In fact, he's about to carry her through the doorway and into her home, like she's his wife, or his girl, or his dumb drunk toddler. The last thought makes her giggle against his chest.

"What's so funny?" he asks and when she looks up at him, there's a hint of a smile on his face, but his eyes are dark with something she can't understand.

"Nothing," she tells him. "Just...you're _carrying_ me."

And, to be fair, the hold feels more bridal than anything, so she can't be blamed if her last few giggles are pressed into the base of his throat or if she secretly enjoys the way his whole body falters when she lightly nuzzles at his neck. Right?

He lays her on her bed and slips her glasses off, lingering to press a kiss to her forehead. It's soft and slow at first, until suddenly he's pulling away with a smack, snapping back and standing straight like he's been burned.

She doesn't bother to make sure he puts her glasses in the right spot on her nightstand, turning onto her stomach with a huff. She feels sloppy and sleepy and so fucking sick of this push and pull between them. Because he says a lot of pretty things and the way he looks at her sometimes makes her knees feel like jelly, but his words never quite match up with his actions. He loves her, but can't be with her. Always touching her, but never kissing her for more than a few seconds before retreating even further away. It's annoying, and as she flops around again, trying to get comfortable, she realizes through her boozy, sleepy haze that something else about this situation is annoying.

"Oliver," she murmurs, and when she cracks an eye open to look at him, he's still standing in the same place next to her bed, eyes locked on her, twirling her glasses between his thumb and forefinger.

It takes him a second to register her words.

"Yeah?"

"You have to unzip me."

"What? No, I…"

She makes another petulant sound. Maybe she is his dumb drunk toddler after all. "Have to get out of the dress, Oliver. Can't fall asleep in the dress."

He reluctantly bends over, sliding the zipper of the dress down her back with what she might consider reverence if she wasn't drunk and slightly annoyed, but she's done wasting time. She pulls the straps down her arms before he's even had a chance to stand up straight, bringing the comforter up to her waist and sliding the dress down and off before she flops back down onto her stomach in just her bra.

He's silent, but she hasn't heard him leave either, so she's pretty sure he's been frozen in place. Until she feels the light brush of his fingers against her shoulder. Over her scar. Of course. Of course she'd be stripping down in front of him and he'd be thinking about her getting hurt.

"It's just a flesh wound, Oliver," she snaps at him a little, but he doesn't stop tracing patterns on her skin. She's sure he can feel the goosebumps, but they're his fault anyway. "You gave Barry a few of them tonight just to prove a point."

"You've taken too many bullets for me, Felicity," he whispers and then his fingers are gone and she can hear him walking away, towards her bedroom door, away from this night, and towards whatever is in store for them next.

Nearly three years together and he still doesn't see what she's willing to do for him, for their cause. He doesn't see that it's her life, her choice, and she'd choose him if only he'd let her.

"Mmm, only one so far," she replies, disagreeing as vehemently as she can right now. "And that was for Sara. And I'd do it again."

He doesn't say anything after that, and she realizes that it might not just be the gunshot wound he's referring to. So, before she shuts her brain off completely, she tells him once more with certainty.

"I'd do it all again."

* * *

It's not until he's back out in her living room, wiping sweaty palms on his jeans that he remembers he drove them there in her car. Meaning, he's got no way to get home. He contemplates calling a cab, but he's suddenly in no mood to leave. The sight of the puckered scar tissue on her back made him think of Diggle, earlier today in the Foundry, watching helplessly as the woman he loved lay on that cold metal table.

She could have gotten hurt again. She was in danger, she's always in danger now, and it's his fault. And because he's selfish, so selfish, he can't let her go, so he has to keep her safe. The guilt makes his feet feel as heavy as his eyelids suddenly do, and so he lays down on her couch, staring at the ceiling and desperately trying not to think about the way she felt curled against his chest, the way her breath felt on his neck.

3:27 AM.

He's not sure when exactly he fell asleep, but he knows exactly when he's woken up. He'll see the digital clock on her bedside table burned on his retinas for the rest of his life.

3:27 AM.

When Felicity woke up screaming.

"NO!"

He hears her from the living room and he's on his feet before the first scream has a chance to echo. He's frozen for a split second, but when another follows it, his body jump starts, and he's bolting into her bedroom so fast the door slams back against the wall.

3:27 AM.

He runs around the bed and reaches her side, afraid to touch her at first, so aware of how many times he's found himself on this opposite side of this scenario. So aware of his hands around his mother's neck, his fists beaten bloody, his muscles clenched in terror.

But then he hears her.

"Lyla!" she gasps, more fear in her voice than he's ever heard before. She starts to thrash at the covers and he's frozen, watching her, both of them in different kinds of anguish, his taking on an extra guilty shade as more covers are wrenched around and it becomes impossible not to notice that she's nearly naked.

It's not until she starting calling out for Caitlin to help that he snaps out of it, climbing over her onto the less-occupied side of her bed and shaking her shoulder gently.

"Felicity, hey, wake up," he's so soft at first, not wanting to startle her too much, hoping to ease her out of the terror he knows all too well.

"Lyla, no!" she wails again, and he shakes her harder, pleading with her, "Felicity, please."

That does it and her eyes snap open, full of terror that dissolves to realization and she grasps at his shoulders and gasps his name involuntarily before averting her eyes, gaze locking instead on his hand. Because the one that isn't stroking her cheek is fisted around the strap of her bra and he'll worry about how either of them got where they are as soon as she just looks at him.

"Lyla…" she breathes, still unable to shake the nightmare.

"She's okay," he says, trying desperately to assure her, reluctantly untangling himself from her bra and moving that hand to stroke across her bare shoulder. "Lyla's a warrior, Felicity, you know that. She's going to be fine."

"What about Sara?" she gasps and seven kinds of guilt flood him when his sleep-addled mind flashes first to his former lover and fellow vigilante before even thinking about Diggle's sweet baby girl. A psychologist would probably tell him that's perfectly normal. A psychologist would probably have a field day with the lot of them.

"She's just a baby, she would never even know her," Felicity continues, oblivious to his internal anguish. "I can't imagine losing my mother."

He feels before he hears it, the second she realizes what she's said to him. She inhales so sharply it sounds painful and he braces himself. But instead of the babbling apologies he expects, the only sound that breaks from her is a sob she muffles against his chest.

"Oliver, I'm so.."

"Felicity," he pleads with her to stop, _just to stop_, for one second, and look him in the eye. "It's fine everybody's fine. Lyla's fine, Diggle's fine, Sara's fine."

And then she does look at him, leveling him with her eyes and her words. "And what about you?"

"What about me?" He's not actually sure if he's breathing or not, but he pushes the words out somehow.

"Are you fine?"

"There was a time when I thought…" his voice actually breaks, but the look in her eyes erases all of his shame in an instant, gives him some kind of crazy strength he never even knew he was missing. "I used to think I'd never be fine again."

"And now?"

"Now," he can't tell her anything but the truth. "Sometimes, it doesn't seem so impossible."

She stares right at him for a long while then, and he thinks she can probably see right through him, with those shining eyes. And he's okay with that, because it means he gets to look at her too.

"Will you stay with me?"

He swallows hard, because even though they hold each other and share their fears, even though he loves her with everything he's got and trusts her with everything else, she's still not his. And she's still half-naked. And he's only human.

"Here?"

"Just for a little, just until I fall asleep," she asks again, softer, and he knows there's no way he says no, but..

"Felicity, you're in your underwear."

"Oh," she answers glancing down, and he's pretty sure she actually hadn't noticed. He's had a few of Thea's drinks himself, to be fair, and he knows what that can feel like.

But he's not at all prepared for what she says next.

"Well then, you should at least take your shirt off," she murmurs, sleepy, matter-of-fact, and so fucking adorable, turning away from him to lay on her side. "It's only fair."

And the thing is, it would be so easy _not_ to do this. It would be the easiest thing in the world to ignore the madness of tonight, to dismiss the things he feels when they look at each other as the product of adrenaline or intoxication. It would be so easy to walk away, and leave her to sleep, hoping she doesn't remember any of this in the morning.

But he doesn't. Because despite his hood and his bow, despite a life devoted to protecting his city, he's still so selfish.

He pulls his jacket off and his t-shirt over his head, stopping short of removing his pants, because he's nowhere close to being ready for that. Not like this. Not when she's drunk, and not only drunk, but drunk and _with Palmer_. He whips his belt from the loops with maybe a little too much force, annoyed at the thought of the guy who took his family's company and has now apparently taken his girl, too. _He's so selfish_.

It's masochistic move, but he couldn't care less as he lays down next to her on top of her covers and presses his upper body close to hers, all of his worries erased at the first contact of their skin.

He tries to control his breathing, not sure that he'll ever fall asleep, not wanting to miss a second of this feeling.

* * *

The next time she wakes, she's less panicked, but no less confused. She knows she should be focused on the dull ache in her head or how her mouth feels like it's full of cotton, but the only thing she can focus on, the only thing she can feel, is Oliver's thumbs.

He's curled up next to her, wrapped around her really, though he's technically lying on top of the comforter, which is pulled down to her waist. His arms are banded around her stomach and his thumbs are rubbing distracting patterns against her skin. She's not sure if he's awake or asleep, his breathing sounds even enough, but she wouldn't put it past him to have that kind of control.

She arches back into him just slightly, reveling in the feeling of his warm skin and hard body against her own. It feels so right, being in his arms, and it frustrates her endlessly that he won't let them have this every day, every night. The two of them together, her in nothing but her underwear, _oh god she's in nothing but her underwear_, him shirtless and pressed up against her, smelling intoxicating and his breath hot in her ear in a way that's even more so. She's not drunk anymore, just drunk on him, and she wants, she _wants_.

She presses back into him again, swiveling her hips just a bit this time, hoping to push him a little, tease him if he's awake and wake him if he's not. But her actions have unexpected consequences, when one of his hands slips down just an inch, and his fingertips brush the lacy top of her panties.

She tries to muffle her gasp, but it doesn't matter, because all she can hear is his sharp intake of breath in her ear. His whole body tenses and she knows now that he's awake and likely, about to bolt, but she's too worked up, hot and frustrated. She won't let him pull away, not this time, _just let them have this time_. So before he can second guess himself, she covers his hand with her own, and gently presses it downward, until their fingers are sliding under the lace together and tracing over her.

Her breath catches at the first feeling of his fingers on her and she holds it. She wants to stay silent, doesn't want to break him from this trance or reverie, or whatever's happening here, because, god, it is already so, so good. And if he pulls away now, if he tries to tell her that this feeling is a mistake, well, she might actually kill him herself, and that would really undo three good years of vigilante sidekicking.

His hand takes over almost immediately, as he dips his head and huffs out another hot breath against her neck, and she sighs in relief. She's not guiding him anymore, just along for the ride as he traces down each of her thighs, lingering in the middle to dip inside her just slightly. She's nearly embarrassed at how wet she is already, but it's worth it to hear the strangled sound he makes as his fingers trace down her slit.

His other hand comes up from underneath her to grab a hold of her bra strap again, but this time it's to tug it away. He immediately begins kneading her freed breast as his fingers below grow bolder, circling her clit and plunging inside her for just seconds at a time before withdrawing again.

She can feel him moving behind her in time with his fingers, rocking softly, and she knows by the way that he's panting that he's just as worked up as she is. She wants to reach back, to offer him the same pleasure he's giving her, but he stays just out of reach, like he's afraid to really grind into her in the same way that she's afraid to break the silence.

But she's unprepared when his thumb presses on her clit at the same time he rolls her nipple between his calloused fingers. His lips trace down her neck so lightly she thinks she's imagining it and then suddenly, she's coming and she can't stop herself when she cries out loud.

"Shit, oh god!"

And she crests one wave and goes along for the ride on the next one when he _finally_ grinds himself into her, pressing so hard that he turns her slightly into the mattress, covering her body with his, thrusting as he plunges two fingers deep inside of her, rolling his thumb in circles around her clit. His jeans slide against the comforter as his hips snap up against her through _way too many layer_s, and she's coming again, crying out and this time, it ends on his name.

"Oliver!"

* * *

His name on her lips breaks him from his reverie and he's on his feet seconds later, standing on shaky legs and bolting for the door. He makes it to the hallway outside her apartment before he can even register that he's left his shirt and jacket and belt and keys, and _literally everything _behind. The only thing he's got with him are his pants, a raging erection, and a growing sense of guilt for what just happened.

He wants to bolt, wants to go back to the Foundry, to suit up and hit the streets and beat this feeling out of himself, but he's stuck like a fool, standing in her hallway, praying that none of her neighbors work the night shift. He caves a minute later, guilt melting into shame, and he's raising a tightened fist to knock, feeling like the biggest shmuck in the whole world, when her door opens.

"Oliver?" she's there in front of him, wrapped in her comforter, eyes wide and hair messy, and she looks so small and innocent he wants to cry.

"God, Felicity, I'm so sorry," he starts, pushing past her into her apartment without even looking at her, fully focused on getting his stuff and getting the fuck out of here. Maybe getting out of her life for good, if he has to.

"What just...?"

He hears her trail off as he moves to her bedroom, grabbing his discarded clothes, unable to even look at her bed. He's on fire, with the shame of what he's done, but also with the vivid sense memory of what she had felt like as she came around his fingers. But of course, that just leads back to the shame.

"Oliver, what just happened?"

She asks him again when he's back in her living room, scrambling around, looking for his keys and his phone and he doesn't even know where to begin, so he just keeps apologizing.

"I...I'm so sorry Felicity," he starts, afraid to even look at her, but she stays silent for long enough that he has to. When he meets her eyes, they're full of anger and heat and he doesn't even have time to take it in before she's narrowing them in his direction.

"Sorry," she nearly spits at him. "You just made me come, _hard_, two times in like five minutes, and you're sorry?"

"I took advantage of you, Felicity!" He's almost yelling now because of course he understands why she's upset with him, but something about her reaction is wrong and he doesn't get it. "You're drunk and you're with Palmer, and I just...I took…"

"I'm what?" She's looking at him like he's grown a second head now, the comforter slipping around her shoulders, and he's not looking at her bra, he is _not_. "You are unbelievable, you know that?"

"Huh?"

"First of all, it is nearly six o'clock in the morning, Oliver," she says, confusing him further. "I am not drunk and I am definitely not with Palmer."

Something in his chest unclenches at her words, but he can tell she's nowhere close to finished being mad at him now. Mad at him, apparently, not because of what he's done, but because he stopped?

"What, is this just a thing now?" she barks out an unamused laugh at the universe. "Billionaires just bailing on me? Because three times in as many months has got to be some kind of record. You didn't even kiss me this time, at least Ray had the decency to do that before he high-tailed it…"

* * *

He takes her by surprise then, dropping the clothes he's holding and picking her up her by her thighs, pushing the comforter to the ground as he lifts her against his still-straining erection and presses her back against her front door. He does kiss her then, hot and deep, and she opens her mouth to him on a moan, because, _jesus_, finally.

"Goddamn it, Felicity," he pants against her neck, kissing down her throat as his hands clench against her ass. "This is not the way this was supposed to happen."

And she'll turn over the meaning of that in her head later, the idea that he's thought about this. She'll definitely be asking about all the ways this _was_ supposed to happen, but for now, she can't believe it's happening at all. She can't believe that he's finally giving in, can't believe she's finally holding him like this, can't believe he's not running, can't believe how fucking good his cock feels, pressed up against her through his jeans.

"Wha?"

"But I can't stop," he continues, not hearing her breathless question, lips and teeth making their way up and down her throat. "Can't stop loving you, can't stop wanting you, can't stop…"

She pauses for a moment, bringing her hands up to either side of his face and forcing his gaze to hers. It still his frantic rant just long enough for her to assure him.

"Then don't."

She kisses him softly and feels his whole body relax, which only serves to slump him a little bit into her, pressing her harder into the door. She moans at the feeling of his hard cock against her still-sensitive pussy, and that snaps him into action, lowering her to the ground and finally ridding himself of his jeans.

"Shit," he pants when she reaches out to grab a hold of him, pumping him a few times before his hand shoots out to still her actions. "Felicity, I don't...do you have?"

Condoms, right. She quickly steps around him to grab some from the bathroom, turning back to raise a warning finger when he tries to follow her.

"Uh-uh," she says, smirking at the juxtaposition of his slackened jaw and hard body straining towards her. "If we're gonna do this, and spoiler alert, we are, we're gonna do it up against the door first. And it is your fault for putting that thought in my head, so you just wait right there, mister."

He grins a little at her then, and shit, she's so done for.

She catches a glimpse of herself in the bathroom mirror as she pulls the condoms out of the drawer and checks the expiration date, silently thanking gods and Google that they're still good, and she's surprised at the reflection of herself, dressed only in her underwear, sporting a blush that spreads from her cheeks down her neck to the top of her chest where a few hickeys are already beginning to form. She loves him, she knows this, but it's the first time she's seeing it on herself. The thought, rather than terrifying her, which it probably should, propels her back out into the living room, where he's standing obediently by the door.

He's stroking himself absently, and she takes a quick second to snap a mental picture because it's literally the hottest thing she's ever seen. His eyes darken when he notices her return, and she's sure he can see the same in hers when he reaches for the condoms. She slips her panties off while he rolls one on quickly before tossing the rest to the side, lifting her in his arms again.

She wants him, wants him inside her so bad, wants it so much she's surprised her stupid practical brain even has the capacity to blurt out something logical right now. But of course it does.

"Oliver, be careful," she blurts out and he looks at her, confused. "Your bad shoulder."

His eyes go wide with what looks like wonder at her words and he kisses her again, so deep she can't tell which one of them is moaning into the other's mouth. He pulls his injured arm away from her then, cupping his good one under her ass and leveraging her against the door with his ridiculous body.

"See?" he says, waving his hand in front of her with a waggle of his eyebrows that makes her grin. "Don't even need it."

She laughs a little at his cockiness, but the sound catches in her throat when he puts that hand to good use, unfastening the front clasp of her bra and pinching her nipples as he claims her mouth again, his tongue hot and wet against her own.

He's rocking up against her, his cock sliding through her soaked folds, stimulating her clit with every thrust, but it's not enough. So she draws his tongue into her mouth, sucking hard and swallowing his moan as she reaches between them to line him up and let him thrust home.

"Felicity," he breaks from her mouth to pant her name once he's finally buried inside her and she cards her fingers through his short hair to bring his eyes up to her as he begins to thrust into her deep and slow at first.

It's perfect, and it's not that she surprised that it's this good, she's just still surprised it's happening, after all they've been through to get here. Surprised that she's finally seeing the shade of blue his eyes darken to when he's inside her. Surprised that he knows just exactly how to touch her and where. And when he dips his head down to take her nipple into his mouth, she's surprised yet again when her body tips quickly over into orgasm.

"Oh god, Oliver!" she cries, no longer worries about breaking their silence. "Fuck!"

Her coming sets him off in a way that she's only dreamed of experiencing. His hands clench her ass so hard she thinks he might leave palm-shaped bruises and his pupils blow totally black as he starts to thrust with less control, pounding her into the door behind her.

"Felicity, god, so good," he's almost whimpering now, and she loves the sight of him losing it a little, intense in pleasure rather than pain for once in his tortured life.

When he starts breathing muffled curse words into her neck, she knows he's close, and she rakes her nails down his back, reveling in the growl this action draws from his lips.

"Come for me, Oliver" she whispers into his ear. "Just let go."

He brings his gaze back to her then, slightly unfocused but no less intense, making her insanely, impossibly, even wetter with his words.

"You too," he breathes hot against her lips, never stopping his relentless rhythm, forehead tipping down to rest against hers. "One more."

He brings his hand between them, rolling her clit once, twice, three times, and then they're coming together, riding out waves of pleasure as they cry out each other's names against sweat-soaked skin.

* * *

She's draped across his chest as the sun rises and he knows he's been happy before, four or five lifetimes ago it seems, but he's sure it never felt like this. Like every good thing is possible if she just stays with him, if they could just stay here in her bed for the rest of time.

"Did you hear anything from Digg?" she asks and he loves her even more in that moment for her big heart, wants to pull her up towards him and show her again just how much, before he remembers.

"Yeah, he texted me," he tells her, and she lifts her head to watch him finish the thought. "She's okay. They both are. Better than okay, actually. They're getting married. Again."

Her eyes widen and her smile stretches the whole way across her beautiful face.

"Really?!"

"Really."

"Aww, there's going to be a wedding," she trails off, laying back down on his chest, covering his tattoos and scars with her golden locks and tracing nonsense down his chest. "That's something good."

And he smiles to himself and stretches up to kiss the top of her head, because she's right.


End file.
